


New and Different

by aguantare



Series: Sin Fronteras [24]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, slashy if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 17:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15345060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: After seven years, this kind of conversation is new, and different, and whatever that says about them, about their relationship, Cris doesn't know how to proceed.





	New and Different

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 9/30/2018: As of today I haven't quite figured out what I will do with the fics I have posted involving C. Ronaldo. I am leaning towards deleting them. 
> 
> James' story here comes almost directly from the migration stories of several close friends of mine. I have had variations of this conversation with the people I hold closest to me, down to the "if I'm deported, you'll visit me, right?" and it kills me every. Single. Time.
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me.

It's kind of amazing, Cris thinks, that for all the shit-talking and shouting his co-workers do on-site during the day, they're laid-back and single-beer-apiece kind of guys when it comes to post-work Friday nights. He figures that maybe it's the 10 hours of hard physical labor five days in a row that keeps them from getting too wild and crazy. 

Nevertheless, as much as he likes the guys, glancing around his living room on one of those aforementioned Friday nights, Cris wonders how he ended up relegated to sitting on the floor in his own apartment while everyone else is sprawled out on his furniture. 

“Hey.” A half-full Heineken bottle hovers into his peripheral vision. Cris twists around to eye the man lying on the sofa behind him.

“Want the rest?” James asks. Cris rolls his eyes, but like every other Friday night, he takes the bottle.

“Lightweight,” he says. The well-worn jibe is still enough to make James reply with _hijueputa_ , and Cris smiles a little around his first swig. 

It's maybe 11 or so when James gets up and heads out for a smoke with Marcelo. Cris briefly contemplates taking his spot on the sofa, just to piss him off, but then decides against it. After all, his own bed is all of ten feet down the hall. 

He thinks he must doze off for a while, because one moment he's listening to a few quiet conversations, and the next it's totally silent. Looking around, the lights are off, the curtains are drawn, and it's clear that everyone else has dozed off too. He unfolds his arms, winces a little at the stiffness, and moves to stretch them out. 

“Feeling your age, old man?” A foot pokes him in the back of the head to accompany the whispered jibe. 

“Fuck you,” Cris whispers back. He doesn't need to turn around to know that James is smirking. 

“Respect your elders,” he adds. 

“Okay, Dad,” James retorts. 

Cris smiles into the darkness. Silence settles, comfortable, calm. Rustling behind him tells Cris that James is shifting around on the sofa. 

“Hey,” Cris says, barely above a whisper, “Can I ask you something?” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he kind of wants to take them back, but something about the dark and the quiet and the stillness make him—something. Brave, maybe. Or reckless. Or both. 

“Go for it.”

“Why'd you come to the U.S.?” 

James is quiet for a long moment, and Cris feels a need to explain himself, clarify or something.

“It's just--I never hear you talk about Colombia or like...your parents or--.” Cris realizes he's probably making it worse, so he shuts up then, before he digs himself any deeper.

“Yeah,” James says eventually and Cris can't tell from his tone of voice whether it's a 'yeah, this is okay' or a 'yeah, now fuck off.'

“Do you--” Cris starts. 

“They just--” James says at the same time. They both cut off. Cris resists the urge to talk through the resulting awkward silence. As long as they've known each other, they've always connected through banter and jokes and the coarse humor endemic to construction sites the world over. After seven years, this kind of conversation is new, and different, and whatever that says about them, about their relationship, Cris doesn't know how to proceed.

“They just—you know, they weren't the world's greatest parents,” James finishes after a few seconds. He pauses. 

“I basically—I left home when I was 14,” he adds, “I didn't. I couldn't live there anymore.”

Cris' mind flashes, suddenly, to the edges of scars he's seen when James wears short sleeves, or pulls up the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat off his face. 

Oh, Cris thinks. 

“And I lived in the streets for awhile, but...” James trails off, and doesn't finish his sentence, which says more than if he had, really. Cris wonders which scars are from where—which ones are from the people who were supposed to love and protect him, and which ones are from the people who never had the obligation (opportunity?) to do so in the first place.

“How old were you when you came here?” Cris asks. 

“17,” James replies, “Best decision I ever made.”

“Why?”

James goes quiet again for maybe ten seconds.

“I was.” He stops, starts again. “In Colombia, I was already halfway _en la tumba_.”

Cris wonders what James means by that, wants to ask, but doesn't know how, or whether, to push. Right now everything feels delicate, fragile, and Cris doesn't want to break it—whatever 'it' is.

“A lot of things happened,” James adds, and Cris can't quite tell if the wispiness in his voice is fatigue, or something else, “Just. Bad things, you know?”

Cris doesn't know, has a hard time even imagining, but he says “yeah” anyways. He hears James shift around again.

“We took a boat from Colombia to Mexico,” James continues, “And I remember thinking, like...if I die out here, you know, if I drown or whatever, okay. Like at least I tried.”

Cris thinks about what he himself was like at 17, about his own mental and emotional state, knows he would never have had that kind of fortitude, that kind of resolve. 

“So anyways.” More rustling around behind Cris' head and then a contented sigh, like James has finally gotten comfortable. “That's my... _cómo se dice_ , sob story? Right?”

Cris wants to say it's not a sob story, it's the furthest thing from it, but the words get caught somewhere between his brain and his mouth. 

“Something like that,” he manages instead. 

Silence settles again, mostly comfortable. Then Cris feels a finger poke at his temple.

“So if I get deported, you're gonna come visit Colombia, right?” James says.

Cris is glad James can't really see his face. The thought of that is—too much.

“Never,” he scoffs, trying to sound natural. James shoves half-heartedly at the side of his head.

“Not even for me?” he asks, sounding indignant. Cris swats blindly behind him, gets nothing but air. 

“I guess, maybe,” he acquiesces. It's supposed to sound grudging, but it doesn't, not even a little. He drops his arm and leans his head back instead until it bumps against James' hip. 

James makes a sort of 'hmph' noise. 

“Your sacrifice is appreciated,” he grumbles. 

He doesn't move though, doesn't push Cris off him or roll away. When Cris turns his head to look at him four, maybe five minutes later, James is asleep. 

And although the twist in Cris's chest isn't new, isn't different, the sharpness of it is.

**Author's Note:**

>  _hijueputa_ : slightly softened 'son of a bitch'  
>  _en la tumba_ : in the grave  
>  _cómo se dice_ : how do you say...


End file.
